


all of my doubt

by armario



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Strahm is Hoffman's Colleague AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:25:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15226197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armario/pseuds/armario
Summary: According to the Wikipedia page, he had mere days to convince Peter fucking Strahm to fall in love with him.





	all of my doubt

Lawrence knows what it is, will surely be able to tell him.  
He doesn't ask.

 It started with the taste of blood at the back of his throat, then an itch like he wanted to cough, then the coughing itself.  
He thought about lung cancer or COPD. He didn't smoke, but it'd still be his luck. Then he woke up choking one morning, clawed at the back of his throat, and dragged out a singular, bloody petal.

 He couldn't tell if the petal was red or the blood had stained it that way. Instead of panicking, he took out his phone and Googled it.

_coughing up petals_

 He grimly read the first article, noting the symptoms it described as ones he'd experienced, cursing himself for being vulnerable to this particular disease.  
Hanahaki disease, the page was titled. The victim dies of suffocation as flowers grow in their lungs. Typically, after a victim has coughed up the first petal, they have no more than a few weeks to live. The symptoms increase in severity until whole flowers are produced, disabling the lungs from functioning. The disease is thought to be caused by suffering an unrequited love. It can be cured by a dangerous surgical process, but some theorize that finding out the love is requited can also be a cure.

 Many have tried to trick themselves into believing the love is requited, but somehow, this never works.

 He hasn't told anyone. Not Logan, who gives him curious looks when he clears his throat and excuses himself on too regular a basis to be normal. Not his colleagues, who assume he's just got a somewhat severe cough, but doesn't everyone at this time of year?  
In the house that they all share, it's hard to get away to dispose of the petals, increasing in their numbers, where no one will find them.

 They're supposed to be worrying about John. It's not John's fault he has cancer, but it is Mark's fault he's suffering from this. He won't distract any of them.  
He can't go to the hospital; John has expressly forbidden it. He can't tell Lawrence about it in order for him to perform the surgery, because he'll just tell John.

 And then they'll ask who caused this.

 When the first whole flower came, one week after the first petal, seven days of suffering through having to pull handfuls of them from the back of his mouth, he thought he was going to die. He coughed but the flower wouldn't move, wet and heavy with blood. His fingers scrabbled to grasp it and drag it up, almost making him throw up.

 It was torn and misshapen, completely unidentifiable. He washed it with shaking hands, and the petals were still red.

 The next time, he was more prepared. As calmly as he could with his ribs heaving, fighting for air, he coughed to dislodge the flower and pulled it gently from its position. Almost whole, almost beautiful.

 He posted a picture of it on a flower forum and asked what it was, and what it meant. One precious day went by before he had an answer.

Red carnation. Admiration. _My heart aches_.

 Mark was disgusted with himself. According to the Wikipedia page, he had mere days to convince Peter fucking Strahm to fall in love with him.

 It's the first time they've seen each other since the disease developed. Right now, Strahm's driving. Normally Mark insists on doing it but he can't trust himself right now. One ill timed coughing fit and he'll run them off the road or headlong into a truck.

 "You want to tell me what's up?" Peter asks. He's observant, dangerously so. Sometimes he comes so close to figuring everything out that it's only Mark's hopeless heart stopping him from cutting ties or his throat just to eliminate the threat. John would berate him for getting attached. Lawrence would say, if I could do it, why can't you? Amanda would smirk and call him weak. Logan would put a hand on his shoulder and tell him it's for the greater good, and the family.  
 Peter is his escape. Makes him feel normal and gives him a glimpse into what his life could have been without Jigsaw. Or maybe he'd even be working against John. He misses his sister so much but curses the way it'd left such a deep wound that he had to get revenge. It was his fault he was in this situation. As Amanda frequently liked to point out, other people lost family, and never murdered anyone.

 "I'm fine," Mark lies.

 He's never really cared much about how other people feel about him, apart from John and Peter. With John it's obligation, respect, fear. With Peter...  
His disinterested tone and sarcasm towards him must mean Peter thinks they aren't friends. It doesn't stop him from being a ray of sunshine, stupid smile and coffee that he brings to Mark whenever they're working together which is far more frequently than he'd like.

 Mark finds it hard to be around Peter, and yet at the same time it's the only thing keeping him sane. He wants to explain all of this but finds the words, like the petals, stick in his throat.

 He ignores Peter's glance in the rear view, leans his head against the glass instead. Watches the other cars stuck in traffic while they speed ahead like his life is speeding away too.

 "Peter," he says suddenly, feeling like he's going to be sick.

 There must be something in his voice, something that puts that fear into the other man's eyes and makes him answer, low and urgent, "What? What is it?" His hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, glancing up in the mirror to see if he's alright.  
 Mark doesn't know what he was going to say. It doesn't matter because then the choking starts. He doesn't register Peter pulling over and gripping Mark by the shoulders as he gasps for air, blood staining his lips as he spits red petals into his hands.

 "Mark, Mark, what the fuck?!"

 He can't _breathe_.

 "I can't breathe," he chokes out. It's all he can think about, and Peter's hands on his shoulders. If he's going to die, right here, he allows himself to hold Peter's arms right back.

 "Okay, okay," Peter says, panicking. "Mark, come on, man. Are those- _petals?"_

 Desperate, clawing, Mark tears the flowers out of his mouth. Three, four. More than ever. This is one situation in which he _can't_  feign calm.

After a while, blood dripping down his chin, swallowing a few more torn petals and tugging out the rest onto the wet red mess on his palms, Mark takes deep breaths and raises his head to look at Peter.

 "You're okay?" Peter asks unevenly, uncertain. He hasn't moved his hands away.

 "Yeah," Mark tries to say, only producing a hoarse whisper, and has to repeat himself.

They're supposed to be on a job, interviewing a witness to an armed robbery, but all of that seems so far away. In his heart, Mark realises this is his last chance.

 "What's going on? Did you eat a bouquet?" Peter's voice cracks so the joke falls flat.

 "It's Hanahaki disease," Mark croaks.

 "I don't know what that is. Are you gonna die? Fuck. Please don't."

 "I'm gonna die," Mark confirms, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 Peter starts asking him questions like _what is it? What happens? How long have you known? Why didn't you tell me?_

 Mark snaps, doesn't answer them, knows it truly is his last chance.

 "Google it," he whispers.

Strahm laughs nervously but fishes his phone out, typing those fated words into the search bar as Mark did a few weeks ago.  
The silence during which Peter reads the information is the longest and most painful of Mark's life.

"Well," Peter murmurs eventually, setting the phone down on the dash. "Who is it?"

Mark averts his eyes.

"You're sure they don't love you back? Because I mean, you're a pretty lovable guy, Mark- hey, don't look at me like that."

"I'm sure."

"The surgery, then. It's not the money, right? I'll do anything for you-"

That hurts.

"-you can get rid of it, you don't have to die, why the fuck-"

And there it is. Mark won't consider the surgery; it'd be a neat albeit horrible end to the tragic mess that is his life. Poetic, fitting, and the perfect opportunity just to slip away from it all.

"This person is the only thing keeping me," his words catch, "here."

"I notice you're saying 'person'," Strahm says. There, he's too observant for his own good.

"Yeah."

"Is it a man?"

"Yeah."

"Do I know him?"

Mark feels exhausted, angry, completely vulnerable. "Yeah."

"So is it someone-"

"Peter," Mark says, and there must be something hidden in that one word that tells him everything, because Strahm is looking at him like he _knows_.

 So it's out in the open, and now Mark won't even be able to enjoy his last few days in Peter's company. He returns his gaze, not one to back down now, but the feeling of dread that started with the first petal has reached its peak.  
 Peter is handsome, he observes dryly. He's never consciously done it before, choosing to focus on Peter's talents and qualities as a friend and colleague. Like this, though, caught off guard, Peter is perfect.

 "So you see why," Mark forces out, "I didn't tell you."

 Peter blinks, then he frowns. "No, Mark, I don't. I don't see why. You'd rather die than tell me?"

 "It's not like I'm going to survive because I did," Mark counters bitterly. Peter leant back in shock a while ago after he admitted he was dying, and now Mark finds himself missing the contact.

 It starts to rain outside. The patter of it on the window is not enough to disguise the sound of Peter unfastening his seatbelt and clothes rustling as he shifts toward Mark. His hands seek purchase in the other man's shirt, drawing him close so their foreheads touch. Mark can barely breathe, but he settles for the feeling of Peter's soft exhales against his lips.

 "I think you're gonna live," Peter whispers, and there are no words for the upsurge of relief and terrifyingly unfiltered adoration Mark feels when he closes the distance and kisses the blood from his mouth.

 "It won't work if you're just faking it," Mark mutters, pulling away with a great effort, but keeping his hands splayed on Peter's thighs.

 "Faking it? You're a fucking idiot," snaps Peter, chasing him back to kiss him again. It's a little desperate, and if Peter was trying to tell him something, Mark thinks he might be beginning to understand.  
 It's kind of ridiculous. Peter is halfway onto his lap, gripping his shirt, making out with him like his life- okay, it does, but they're two grown men, cops no less, and this is a semi-public situation.  
 Nevertheless, he kisses back, giving everything he can, trying to ignore the shivers down his spine when Peter slips his tongue into his mouth, no doubt tasting blood and carnations alike.

 "Later, later," he almost pleads, not sure he could stop if they carry on.

 "Alright," Peter agrees, smoothing Mark's hair at the nape of his neck. "Please come home with me later."

 Mark thinks about it. 'Family' dinners are usually on Wednesdays, and while John expects him to be available on demand, he won't arouse much suspicion by heading out for the night. The thought of John and the others darkens his mood for a moment. Despite his affection for Peter, this new development screams  _danger_ for their setup. Maybe one day, Mark will get out of this terrible business, but it's more likely he'll find Peter to be in the next game if John ever finds out.

 "Okay," Mark concedes.

 Satisfied, Peter returns to the driver's seat and starts the car. Despite his usual penchant for abiding by the law, one of his hands remains off the steering wheel and linked with Mark's for the rest of the journey.

 Maybe he catches Mark rolling his eyes in the mirror. It doesn't matter; he saved his life.


End file.
